There Will Be Justice
by nicky69
Summary: Squatting beside the, as yet unidentified victim, Gil Grissom sets his kit down beside him and takes a moment to study the scene. AN: Warning for subject matter, this features the death of a child, other notes inside.


Guys this a writing exercise I did ages ago. I'm only posting it now as a means of seeing if I can get to accept a story as it seems that a lot of people are having trouble with the site. If it sucks, I'm sorry. Mea culpa.

Exercise #4: descriptions

since a lot of us are battling the descripts I thought it would be interesting for us to do a story the focuses on the scene. Begin either in tight and work backwards to a wider scene, or start from the wide angle and squeeze into a sharp focus on a single area. can use a minimum of dailogue, but keep it minimum.

Or take us for a long meandering walk down a country trail. Be sure to use the five senses.

Try to keep an active voice

**There Will be Justice **

Squatting beside the, as yet unidentified victim, Gil Grissom sets his kit down beside him and takes a moment to study the scene. Before him lies the battered body of a child. The boy is no more than four years old if he is any judge of such things, certainly not more that seven. How did he come to be here?

The child is only partially dressed. His pyjama top, all that shields his fragile body from the world, is decorated with colourful little pictures of Fred and Barney, and is incorrectly buttoned. A sign perhaps that the perp was either unconcerned with the fate of his victim or else that he was disturbed before he could finish dressing him.

He allows his gaze to catalogue the evidence before him, feeling his gut tighten with a hot surge of hatred and revulsion, for whoever committed this monstrous crime. Retrieving his camera from the kit by his side, he adjusts the focus and begins to take preliminary photographs of the victim. Snap, he sees the ugly ligature marks that encircle the child's small wrists. Snap, he captures the cigarette burn marks that pepper the exposed skin of the child's lower body. Snap, he tries ineffectually to banish the sight of dried blood on the back of the child's thighs.

Reaching out with latex clad hands; he gently turns the boy over onto his back, and begins once more to catalogue the scene. Snap, sightless brown eyes reflect the light from his camera's flash, an imitation of life, but nothing more. Snap, bloodless lips in a pallid face, a silent cry for justice. Snap, mottled bruises, evidence of brutality and abuse.

Stepping back, he scans the area surrounding the body. Nearby a dumpster is overflowing with trash. The air is redolent with the scent of spoiled food, masking the more subtle aroma of decomposition in its early stages. The boy hasn't been dead long. Beside the dumpster lies piles of cardboard and yet more bags of trash. The chill early morning air lies heavily on him, filling him with gloom and despondency. His heated breath blossoms in the air before him, a tangible reminder of his own mortality. How can anyone throw a child away like a piece of trash? I sickens him.

Moving outwards now, in a grid pattern, he surveys the alley. It's no different from any other in the city of Las Vegas. Dumpsters are spaced sporadically, litter drifting in the soft breeze that creeps between the buildings, light spilling from the open doorways of nearby shops and restaurants. At the entrance to the alley, light pools beneath the streetlight situated there, casting a wealth of shadows, defining nothing.

The strobbing of the police cruiser's blues splashes the walls with an eerie, ethereal light. It lends an air of the surreal to the scene, rendering it almost dreamlike. But the memory of cold dead eyes and the scent of copper in the air, grounds him in the grim reality of this world. This imperfect world, where children are thrown away like day old trash and those responsible walk without conscience or fear.

He can hear the chatter that comes over the police radio, listens to the cops on duty as they discuss the latest station gossip. Somewhere, nearby a radio is playing. A fast Latin beat echoes of the alley walls. In the background, he can hear the steady thrum of traffic, the heartbeat of the city, a reminder that life goes on.

Yes, life goes on, just not for everyone.

Sighing, he turns once again, back to the scene. He has evidence to gather and a duty to uphold. The dead shall speak and he shall listen. The guilty will be made to pay for their crimes. There will be justice.


End file.
